Page 17 of The Bodyguard

His fingers tightened slightly in her hair. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to anchor her.

“Then let me carry it with you.”

She closed her eyes. It was the closest thing to surrender she’d ever allowed.

He kissed her again, slower this time—their tongues tangling together in a slow and sensual dance. Less command, more reverence. She clung to him like she was drowning, and for the first time since the crash—maybe even before that—she didn’t feel alone.

When they finally pulled apart, his forehead touched hers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “And I don’t expect you to let go of everything overnight. But when it’s too much—when you feel like you’re slipping—you come to me. Understand?”

Andi nodded, barely able to breathe.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I understand.”

He kissed her temple, the gesture strangely intimate, then stepped back.

“You need to rest. Take a shower and get some sleep. Then we talk next steps.”

Just like that, the moment was gone. He was back in protector mode. And she stood trembling in the center of her loft, her lips swollen, her heart slamming against her ribs as if it craved more. Wanted him… and she had a terrifying feeling she wasn’t going to stop wanting him anytime soon.

The buzzing of her phone broke her reverie as an encrypted message from a number she didn’t recognize flashed across the screen:

You shouldn’t have brought him into this.

4

MITCH

Mitch Langdon didn’t believe in coincidences. Not when it came to politics. Not when it came to death threats. And damn sure not when it came to suspicious packages dropped in plain sight, under security cameras, by a staff member wearing catering whites.

He uploaded his full report to Cerberus via the encrypted field tablet resting on Andi’s kitchen counter. His notes were clinical. Precise. No emotion, no assumption, just the facts: visual confirmation of a tampering attempt, photographic stills of hand-off outside The Alder Club, successful evac, no active detonation device. Conclusion: message, not execution. Yet.

He included timestamps, behavioral data, and movement logs. His tone was pure SEAL—brief, blunt, and locked down. But under that calm surface, something itched.

The perimeter at the club had been secure. Security had cleared the route to the car twice. His backup team was on site early. Even so, someone had made it past all of it. Either the bastard was a ghost... or someone had handed them a map, which meant only one thing.

Mitch stared down at the final field note, then erased it with a swipe of his thumb. He didn’t write suspicions into a permanent record until he had proof.

Still, the theory coiled through his brain like a wire pulled too tight.The leak is internal.

He closed the file and locked the screen, then moved toward the loft’s wide bay windows, gaze sweeping the street below. He didn’t expect to see anything. That wasn’t the point. Surveillance feeds were running. The sensors were armed. The real threat wasn’t coming from the street anymore.

The real threat was closer.

He turned just in time to see Andi emerge from her bedroom. Her hair was damp, pulled into a loose knot, and she was wearing a thin navy tee and soft-looking gray joggers that rode low on her hips. No makeup. No armor. Just her.

Mitch’s pulse kicked. Not because she looked vulnerable—because she didn’t. She carried herself like she was holding the line against the world. Chin high. Shoulders straight. But he saw the tremor she tried to hide when she reached for her laptop. The way her hand paused on the edge of the table just a beat too long before she sat.

They were paying him to protect Andi Donato, the toughest woman anyone had ever asked him to protect—and he’d worked with diplomats under fire in Mali and heiresses with bounties on their heads in Monaco. But this woman? She was fire wrapped in silk.

She was everything dangerous and beautiful and proud—and she was still fighting a war on two fronts: the public one she showed the press, and the private one she wouldn’t admit she was losing.

Mitch moved back toward the kitchen, retrieving the mug of coffee he’d left steaming beside the tablet. He crossed to her desk and placed it gently on the corner, within reach.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, eyes on her screen.

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